Outside, the wind howls. Inside, the farm house windows rattle and the cats sleep curled in on themselves in chairs by the wood stove. The pony stands patiently in her stall. Potter barks at squirrels, then settles at our feet. We read. Mike keeps the stove fed and I draw a bath, steaming in the morning light.
Later we spread raspberry jam on crusty bread and drink steaming cups of hot chocolate. After noon Mike gets restless, heading out to find something active and industrious to do: shovel the pond, feed the horse an apple. I am content by the stove. He snaps photos outside and I click words on the screen. Soon I'll be back to reading.
Yesterday, we snowshoed down quiet trails through the woods, the blue sun beaming off the half-frozen brook, bubbling and gurgling and sighing with the season. The dog raced ahead and circled back, panting steaming breath into the unseasonably warm air. Sweat rose at the back of my neck under too many layers as I tromped effortfully up steep hills. Later, red wine and dinner. Ice skating. Tea. A soak in the tub. Flickering candles and Billie Holiday. A big bed under down covers. The skeletons of dancing trees visible from the window under bright purple moonlight.
Trying on someone else's life; housesitting. It probably doesn't feel quite this way to them: quiet, slow, spacious. We absorb what we want and leave the rest, imagining if it were ours. We'd insulate, we say, but would do well with chickens. Bright yellow yolks in the morning pan and something to care for each day.
They spent a year in India with their young children. We wonder about the Fullbright teaching position that brought them there. How competitive could it be, how hard to come by? "We could have stayed," she says. "The kids were ready to come back." An expat adventure and the promise of home: the farm house, the cats, the chickens.
We steep in their life: vacation for us, but on either side the thrust of real life: responsibility, schedules, work. But in these spaces we dream of ways to blend the two, of what we'll take away and stow for the future.
They say the bits we write down are more likely to come true. I've seen it happen. Dreams into life.
Later we spread raspberry jam on crusty bread and drink steaming cups of hot chocolate. After noon Mike gets restless, heading out to find something active and industrious to do: shovel the pond, feed the horse an apple. I am content by the stove. He snaps photos outside and I click words on the screen. Soon I'll be back to reading.
Yesterday, we snowshoed down quiet trails through the woods, the blue sun beaming off the half-frozen brook, bubbling and gurgling and sighing with the season. The dog raced ahead and circled back, panting steaming breath into the unseasonably warm air. Sweat rose at the back of my neck under too many layers as I tromped effortfully up steep hills. Later, red wine and dinner. Ice skating. Tea. A soak in the tub. Flickering candles and Billie Holiday. A big bed under down covers. The skeletons of dancing trees visible from the window under bright purple moonlight.
*
Trying on someone else's life; housesitting. It probably doesn't feel quite this way to them: quiet, slow, spacious. We absorb what we want and leave the rest, imagining if it were ours. We'd insulate, we say, but would do well with chickens. Bright yellow yolks in the morning pan and something to care for each day.
They spent a year in India with their young children. We wonder about the Fullbright teaching position that brought them there. How competitive could it be, how hard to come by? "We could have stayed," she says. "The kids were ready to come back." An expat adventure and the promise of home: the farm house, the cats, the chickens.
We steep in their life: vacation for us, but on either side the thrust of real life: responsibility, schedules, work. But in these spaces we dream of ways to blend the two, of what we'll take away and stow for the future.
*
They say the bits we write down are more likely to come true. I've seen it happen. Dreams into life.
